is biased, I may as well put my own agenda out there.
I peer into the crystal ball and see the guy at a podium, a seriously pissed off wife next to him, giving a Tammy Wynette “stand by your man” Academy Award performance as he sadly delivers the standard mea culpa to the press about his “error in judgement” that landed him in bed with a stripper and his balls in a sling with his constituents.
“Well?”
“Shhhh,” I say, putting up one finger. “The image is clearing.”
This is going to be fun. The sonofabitch licks his lips; the thought that he can install a trapeze in his secret apartment makes his beady dark eyes gleam. I begin to nod and smile. I’m going to seriously screw with this guy.
I lean back and look up at him. “Your wife will never know. In fact, you’ll also have a second affair with a famous movie star.”
Now the guy’s lips are twitching in anticipation. I give him the name of one of Hollywood’s serious babes, a girl who is light years out of his league, and his smile grows from ear to ear.
Annnnnnnnd…Cue the big tip.
***
“Do I have a shot with Adrianna?”
Just like clockwork, our class supernerd Melvin Hendrick corners me at my locker between third and fourth period with a question about his crush of the day.
“Hello, Melvin,” I say, without any emotion.
“So, waddaya think? Me and Adrianna?”
The question is beyond ridiculous. Melvin is five feet tall and wide, dark eyes peering through Coke-bottle glasses, constantly in a state of flop sweat. Adrianna is the prom queen, five-ten, blonde, legs up to her neck. A girl who not only stops traffic but makes it back up.
“You and Adrianna?”
Melvin’s face fills with anticipation. “Yeah. So, do I have a shot?”
“Four words, Melvin. Out. Of. Your. League. Go find a girl who has things in common with you, maybe owns a pair of Vulcan ears. Stop shooting for supermodels.”
His smile fades. “Maybe so. Thanks, Jillian.”
I realize I’ve gone a bit far, so I dial down the sarcasm. “Trust me, Melvin, there’s a nice girl out there for you. (Hey, he’s a sci-fi fanboy; I might as well toss him some fiction.) See you tomorrow. Same bat time, same bat station.”
Melvin heads off to class while I shut the door to my locker, revealing one half of my personal romantic dilemma behind it.
“Hey, Sparks.”
My heart flutters as Ryan Harker looks down at me with those deep blue eyes that reach right into my soul and give it a hug. But my rush is short-lived, as I panic and immediately switch my focus to my upcoming Algebra Two test.
I have to. Ryan is a mindreader.
Well, not a full-fledged mindreader. He’s still an apprentice under his father, and his powers are developing, so his abilities are sporadic. Problem is, I never know when he can read my thoughts.
And if he can read them now, I want him to see math equations instead of my original daydream, which included deeds that would make my crystal ball seriously fog up.
“Hey, Ryan.”
“Math test got you worried, huh?”
Whew. Almost busted. “You know me. I always get nervous about tests.”
“Yeah, and you always get an A. I don’t know why you worry so much.”
Suddenly I’m channeling Melvin as I feel my armpits grow damp.
Here’s what it’s like inside my head when these impromptu meetings with Ryan occur:
Damn, I want to run my fingers through that thick black hair and jump on…. the hypotenuse of a right triangle is equal to…I think he’s gotten a little taller. Must be six feet now. God, those dimples when he smiles at me…the circumference of a circle is how many times the radius…oooh, those broad shoulders and slim hips. Nice jeans today…. A parallelogram has equal sides…
Look, I know what you’re thinking. If the guy obviously likes you, and you like him, then take down the firewall in your head.
But it’s not that simple. It would give Ryan an unfair advantage.
And I know what else you’re thinking. If Jillian can read the future of everyone else, why not read Ryan’s future?
Tried that already. There’s a big blank spot in the crystal ball.
Which, according to Mom, means I’m somehow involved. To what degree is anyone’s guess.
The bell rings, mercifully taking me out of my lust-for-Ryan-mathematical-formula loop.
“See you in the cafeteria,” he says. “Buy you lunch?”
“Sure thing,” I say, trying unsuccessfully to hold back a huge smile.
***
“Jillian. You look hot today.”
Since we’re into mathematical equations, it’s time you met the source of that comment who happens to be the other half of my romantic problem for which no answer key exists.
Meet Jake Revson, rogue telekinetic of the senior class. Possessor of classic dark brown bedroom eyes behind which lurk some semi-evil plan to move objects in a fashion that will amuse him. Mom hates him and the fact that I’m attracted to him. It’s not just the mop of always tousled medium brown hair or that wicked smile that tells you he’s up to something, it’s what’s behind those eyes that deserves more exploration. Deep down I sense he’s an incredibly decent person who simply puts up his bad boy persona in the torn black jeans to keep people at a distance. The distance part frustrates the hell out of me. But at least I don’t have to think about math formulas when I take in that slender five foot eight frame of his that is no doubt built for speed.
I slide into the desk next to his. “You say that to all the girls.”
“Yeah, but with you it’s true.” His lean face develops a slight smile.
I’m not sure I believe him, but I hope he’s not lying. There is a bit of evidence to support the theory that he’s interested in me. Jake once rescued me from a guy who wouldn’t leave me alone by sending his textbooks flying into the boys’ bathroom and into the toilet. After that he rearranged the Christmas lights on the guy’s house to spell out a double entendre regarding the North Pole. He also unbuttoned my blouse a bit one time with his thoughts; when I discovered this unfortunate disrobing I looked up to find him smiling at me.
And of course I can’t read his future either. Damn blank spot.
“Jake, I’ll never believe you until you ask me out.”
“You free Friday night?”
“Yeah…”
